What happened between Atticus and Miss Maudie
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: An extra bit that could be stuck on the end of the novel. From Scout's point of view.


What happened between Atticus and Miss Maudie happened not long after that Halloween, which looking back gives it the distinct impression that it happened because of what happened on that Halloween, or during the summer that led to it. I suppose, then, that every cloud does have silver lining. Once it did happen, I had gathered enough knowledge of that field to tell me that my father probably wouldn't want me to ask questions about it; thus the fullest account that I have of the events came many years later and not from Atticus, but from my stepmother herself.

I had never known my own mother and so had no president, save for perhaps Calpurnia or Aunt Alexandra, with which to compare Miss Maudie's maternal capabilities. It took her officially- in the eyes of Maycomb at least- becoming my mother to make me realise how much like one she had been in the first place. Life with her was agreeable for the most part, even taking the alarming rise of flora and fungi in our own back yard. Jem- who remembered our own mother- seemed to approve of her and so I was able fairly presume that she met all necessary requirements. All I can firmly declare is that motherhood did not sweeten her acid tongue in the slightest and nor did it cause any discernible hindrance to her cake-making abilities. At the time I thought it was probably the latter rather than the former that had won our father over. Jem and I had never seen Atticus look happier.

After that fatal Halloween both my brother and I noticed a new quietness in our father. Aunt Alexandra said it was only to be expected, given the circumstances. Jem's chief concern at that time was football and I supposed that, in this case, she might be right and so we accepted it without a great deal of questioning. What did catch our attention was that instead of reading the newspaper in the evening he would leave the house to be alone. This must have registered with Aunty too; her explanations were proffered with less certainty this time. Years later, I learned from Miss Maudie that at first Atticus really was going for walks; only after a while had he started visiting her.

I had to understand that it had been very difficult for him, that was something Miss Maudie seemed very keen to impress upon me. All his working life, Atticus hadn't needed to directly contend with the madness that gripped a jury at the mention of a coloured man but had despised it all the same. And when he did have to face it, he lost. Although he put a brave face on it- for our sakes, Miss Maudie said- it broke his heart that he hadn't been able to overcome the final barrier. Despite Miss Maudie's assertions that baby steps were being and had been taken; deep within him a sense of failure prevailed: Tom's life had still been lost in the process of taking those steps. She said that it profoundly shocked her to see an older version of his thirteen-year-old son sitting in the same kitchen chair a matter of months later, requiring the same consolation as Jem had. I imagine that it wouldn't have shocked me as much: I saw a glimmer of Atticus amid our mother's features everyday as I looked at Jem across the breakfast table.

It probably should have been odd to ask my stepmother when she first realised she loved my father. It wasn't: though this was likely to be because she first felt that she loved the older Finch brother when she had fallen out of a tree at the age of seven and he had helped her up. I told her that wasn't what I meant and she knew it, only to be reminded that she had only answered what I had asked. She couldn't give me an exact date but she had a feeling that the realisation she was in love with him dawned on her at some point while he was sitting in her kitchen on a winter evening. What was odd about that was surely, knowing Miss Maudie, the moment such a notion dawned on her one would have expected her to make her sentiments clear to all parties concerned- as was her custom- and, knowing Atticus, would have found herself engaged to be married within the next twenty four hours. It transpires that it wasn't as simple as that.

The first complication, strangely enough, was Uncle Jack. Well, he wasn't so much a complication as an oddity... but that was Uncle Jack in a nutshell, really. It transpired that Uncle Jack's annual proposals of marriage were something of an epilogue for himself and Miss Maudie as children. According to Atticus, and Miss Maudie did not deny it when I asked her later, she and Uncle Jack were rather like Dill and I were at the age of eight: engaged to be married. The difference was that Uncle Jack, as unlikely as this sounds, took the matter more seriously than Dill had with me: Dill was more than content with his own imagination and would probably have found a wife a dismal dose of reality, as opposed to Jack having his feet more firmly on the ground. Atticus and Miss Maudie presumed that he had got the message that she wasn't still interested upon her first marriage, but were still cautious. Standing in Uncle Jack's shoes, I suppose I see why: had I an older sister who had later taken it upon herself to marry Dill, it would probably have been a little strange.

The second complication was somewhat more pressing. It was not the done thing in Maycomb for ladies to be as forward as Miss Maudie found herself aspiring to be. The first time she had been married, the gentleman had done the requisite proposing, as was customary. This time, there was no guarantee for her that the gentleman even had the slightest inclination of the sort towards her. It struck me as odd that Miss Maudie should have concerned herself with custom at a time when being in love was in question, and I told her as much. I had never as long as I had lived known Miss Maudie to restraint her sentiments in order to conform to social expectations. Then, she said, perhaps it wasn't custom that induced such a halting barrier of reticence: perhaps it was just simply that it was love.

This, it surprised me still further to hear, continued over a period of some weeks. Atticus, as had by then become routine for the two of them, would present himself- meekly, almost shyly, she told me- in the evening and he would take his seat at the kitchen table. Sometimes they would talk, but at other times each others presence was consolation enough. As you can understand, the time was an exceptionally trying one for my step-mother: her tongue not quite used to having to be so tranquil especially when there was something so pressing to say. However, one particular occasion, she said, remained visible among the haze of memory the period condensed into. She was standing at her kitchen counter, tea cup in hand. Atticus was in his chair. It was one of the occasions on which they did not deem words to be necessary. Thus it came as something of a surprise when he said:

"Maudie?"

She responded monosyllabic-ally.

"Hm?"

Atticus tilted his head as if weighing up his words. I had seen him do this often when considering his best approach with me.

"You're looking at me rather oddly."

Given the circumstances, it would not have altogether surprised her if she was. This, you may agree, seemed an opportune moment to broach the subject she had been trying to avoid for weeks. She slightly bit the rim of her cup. Atticus' eyebrows were raised in anticipation of her response. She avoided his gaze and simply replied:

"I know."

Although he did not continue the conversation, I am told that on that night the mood between them decidedly altered.

It was then only a matter of time. I myself remember one day that I now realise must have been within the time of which we speak. Jem, Atticus and I had returned for lunch. Aunty was in a foul mood: despite it being summer the weather was dull a drizzly, always a bad omen in the forecasting of Aunty's temperament. Calpurnia informed us that we had a visitor, and Miss Maudie- never a stickler for the formalities such as being shown in that she considered extravagant even in her enamoured state- followed at her heels. All it took was for her to look Atticus in the face. Jem and I noticed immediately, I- unhelpfully- stared like a guppy fish, Jem, the polar opposite, resumed his eating with a hearty vigour. Even Aunty must have sensed the change about the room and looked up from her plate. I forget now why Miss Maudie was visiting us at that time, just the feeling upon her entering the room that did not subside until Atticus returned to his office: it somehow looked as if the room had become a little lighter, despite the two of them appearing to be slightly short of oxygen.

In the end, my step-mother did not need to propose to my father: by that lunchtime he was very much in love with her and was gradually coming to realise it. To my surprise, by this point in the conversation I was very interested to know exactly how he had finally done it. I was duly warned that it would seem terribly unromantic to anyone but either of them. That did not bother me, I had never been a stickler for romance and was pleased at the prospect of their engagement not being the kind published en masse in bog standard "love stories", as- to my mind- it would suit neither of the parties concerned. It happened the night of Jem's first football game. To this day I remember it well. Despite being fed to within an inch of his life by Calpurnia in preparation he was still dwarfed by the other players. Nevertheless, I could not help but feel proud of my brother as he walked with an incredibly straight back onto the field. Perhaps it was because I had an innate sense that he was licked before he began.

Needless to say, my own personal memories of the night are bleaker than other people's; mostly including trying to ease a battered Jem into bed while Aunt Alexandra held a cold compress on his swollen eye amid her mutterings that he would have set his wretched arm back a good few months. Miss Maudie had been with us to watch the game and remained downstairs with Atticus as a weary-looking Aunty announced that she was turning in for the night. Miss Maudie recounted to me what she claimed to remember of the conversation, though I suspect she retained much more than she let on; from what I have heard, it wasn't the kind of thing that would ever leave you. He was not sitting in his rocking chair as I would have expected but on the couch next to her.

He had thanked her for helping to bandage Jem up and she had told him not to be ridiculous, he knew she would do that for either of his children. Bluntness was always her strong point. I cannot quite envisage how this lead to them kissing there and then on the couch, but can only assume that an exchange of increasingly amorous sentiments ensued and think it was best not to ask for any finer detail, as I would have been unlikely to receive an answer. I have, however, been told what happened next and not only by Miss Maudie. It would be impossible for me to conjecture as to why Aunt Alexandra chose that night of all night to wonder if the stove had been turned off; but I can imagine that she got more than she bargained for when she came down stairs to find her brother kissing our neighbour. The small shriek could be heard all through the house and I hastened to find the room in near silence but with the distinct air of narrowly averted uproar.

Miss Maudie quickly excused herself and I was sent to bed forthwith. We trundled out into the hall together, both with the distinct feeling that we were being admonished for something that wasn't altogether in our control. Before I reached my room, I heard the sound of the front door clicking a second time. Atticus had followed her, I knew it even though it was too dark for me to see it out of my window.

Miss Maudie returned to our house for breakfast. Jem, supporting an impressive black eye was flabbergasted the next day at breakfast when they announced their news to us; I tried to appear so and to resist the temptation to point out that every time he got beaten up a general surge of affection was prompted among the Finch family. Aunt Alexandra looked put out, which was odd considering that she had never held a particular grudge against Miss Maudie. I reasoned that Aunty was still suffering from shock at the memory of seeing her brother kiss her. I told them I was pleased- truthfully, despite my own perplexities. Miss Maudie, looking tired but happy watched me with what seemed to be mild uncertainty from across the breakfast table. The feeling took me that I should try to reassure her; I smiled at her slightly, over the top of the milk pitcher.

After the wedding, life assumed it's usual tired pace. Aunty, unable to comprehend the notion of not being the mistress of the house begrudgingly returned to Uncle Jimmy the next week. It surprised me that I was rather sad to see her go, but Miss Maudie said it didn't surprise her: Aunt Alexandra was as tolerable an aunt as I could have hoped for. Then she lifted me up onto the kitchen counter while she made a cake. I got flour on my school dress, but she didn't seem to mind. Not for the first time more I was struck with the notion that before me stood the most extraordinary woman in the world. This lead me to ask her what her baptist friends thought about her recent nuptials. Her baptist friends had been pleased for her, but the foot-washers hadn't; especially when she informed them that all she was doing was adhering to their literal reading of the scripture and loving her neighbour. I laughed until she gave me the mixing bowl to wash.


End file.
